


Helldays

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cock & Ball Torture, Dark, Dream Sex, Hell Fic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kinda, M/M, Nipple Torture, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Torture, all manner of torture, just an excuse for kinky non-con really, not a particularly happy story, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has no voice in Hell</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

19th May

 

Sam is exactly where he belongs: open and adored beneath Dean's body; Dean who is burning up, slip-sliding against him, belly to chest. Sam's balls rasp against familiar hair, their bodies more natural together than apart, and he pulls Dean in tighter, deeper. Sam's palm slides against his brother's back and he thinks that Dean feels as hot and slick on the outside as he would on the inside.

 

Sam is drunk, stupid drunk but he doesn't care. He moans as Dean thrusts into him, thick and relentless. Only Dean could get him this way. Sam gives it all up until he feels like he has nothing left to give, and then Dean makes him give more. _Dean_. They're so right together, so _good_ , and Sam wants to be closer. He craves everything that is Dean: Dean's body, his attention, his love. He wants to crawl right inside Dean's skin and live there, curled up tight around Dean's heart.

 

Sam's hips are canted, knees pulled back to take it just right. He lets his head loll back and Dean doesn't disappoint, scratchy two-day stubble scraping Sam's throat, sucking wet kisses, marking him up. Dean smells of home; Sam's beloved. Sam sobs. He's dizzy, disorientated but swimming in bliss. Blurry surroundings roll upside-down and he doesn't even know where they are; doesn't remember how he'd gotten so drunk, but that's okay. Dean's here. Dean will take care of him.

 

Dean's body vibrates with urgency and Sam cups his nape, soothes his fingers through damp bristles of hair. He wants to shush Dean, tell him they have forever but his voice won't come. He can feel Dean's teeth, mouth pulled into a grimace of determination, and Dean starts to keen. It's a desperate, high-pitched noise and it unsettles Sam. He tugs at Dean, tries to lift him, to get a look at his face but Dean won't budge, clinging on, fucking Sam harder than ever.

 

_Dean_ , Sam tries to say, but nothing comes out. Why can't he speak? _Dean_ , he tries again, hauling Dean upwards.

 

Dean's face is in Sam's hands, he can feel it with his fingertips, Dean's nose, lips, chin, brow; more familiar to Sam than his own face. But Sam sees nothing at all, a blur of colour, twisted and wrong, and panic takes hold. Dean is being pulled away. Sam tries to hold on, tries to keep his legs snug around his brother's waist but Dean is torn from him and it feels like Sam's heart is rending in two.

 

Gradually the motel room comes into focus, and with vision comes memory. Sam's drunk but not as drunk as he'd thought he was. The bedsheets are damp and twisted and he's flung sideways, head and legs dangling. He doesn't try to check the tears and they fall freely, collecting in his already sweaty hair. Sam is empty, so empty. Dean is gone. Sam's reason to move, his reason _exist_ has been torn from him because Dean is in Hell.

 

When the tears have run their course, Sam stumbles to the bathroom. He gets to the mirror and stops. The man looking back at him has a beard, two weeks or so beyond stubble. His skin is sallow and his eyes haunted, framed by dark circles. Sam doesn't recognise himself. Maybe this is how they will all look in the end, the souls damned to eternal suffering. He pictures crowds of them, moaning and wailing, torn apart only to be put back together, to be torn apart all over again. The hopeless and the helpless, overflowing from the cauldron of human souls, a million limbs writhing together, suffocating in each other but never allowed to die. Demon-fodder.

 

Sam goes to his knees by the toilet bowl and vomits. There's not much to come up and perversely he wants it to go on longer than it does. Afterwards, he scours his face and the inside of his mouth with soap and cold water. His neck is scratched raw, hardly surprising since his fingernails are long and ragged, and he can't help but remember Dean mouthing at his throat in the dream. It's the most vivid dream that Sam has ever had, the best and the worst all at once.

 

Tears threaten to return but he bites down hard on the inside of his lip, viciously glad as it splits open. The drinking and the dreaming, none of it is going to bring Dean back. “Useless _fuck_ ,” Sam snarls at the mirror, and his reflection snarls back, with the contempt that Sam deserves for letting Dean die and for failing to rescue him. He thinks of Dean making that sound, the sound he had made in the dream, but making it right at this moment, way down in the Pit.

 

What kind of freak dreams of fucking their dead brother? What kind of freak dreams of fucking their brother at all? Sam swallows and his mouth tastes of sorrow; of nothing more than his own blood.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Eleven days and three liquor soaked benders later, and Sam has his second waking dream. This time he has no body; a discorporate presence only, spectator to a conversation taking place between Dean and a middle aged man in a grey suit.

  
  


Dean is naked, huddled miserably on a wooden chair. Grey Suit has an executive black leather chair, a desk between them. His position is notably higher than Dean's.

  
  


“Dean,” Grey Suit says, the fake-friendly nasal tone making Sam wince, “This is your eighth annual performance review, isn't that right?”

  
  


Dean doesn't look up. His skin is stark in its paleness, and Sam can't see his face but beloved freckles dust Dean's hunched shoulders and Sam would give anything to wrap him in a blanket and bring him home. Grey Suit turns over a few sheets of paper without glancing at them. His gaze remains predatory, fixed on Dean.

  
  


“Ah Dean. I won't ask how you're doing,” Grey Suit continues, smugness infusing his tone. “You know, one day, when we've trained you to be honest, we'll have a heart to heart, you and I. I look forward to it. In fact, I'll schedule something in right now, shall I? Should we say twenty years from now?” He scribbles something on a seemingly random page. “That will give us time to teach you to heel. I hear you've been resisting Aoyin's conditioning?” He sounds mildly amused.

  
  


Dean curls tighter in on himself and Sam wants to murder this demon, for surely that is Grey Suit's true nature. He wants to sink his thumbs into the creature's eye sockets and push until its eyeballs burst inside its skull.

  
  


Grey Suit thumbs the end of his pen on and off, click-click, click-click. “Hecate thinks you need an incentive. A reward.” Dean looks up and Grey Suit smiles. His gums are crimson and Sam thinks of blood drinkers, the lamia and gaki. “Tell me Dean, would you like a reward?”

  
  


“No,” Dean whispers, no hesitation.

  
  


“Oh come now, Dean,” Grey suit cajoles. “We are making progress. I'll admit that, yes, it's slower progress than I'd hoped for, and it has to be said that you're not the quickest study, but we are getting somewhere,” Grey Suit leers, “Aren't we Dean?” He leans over the desk and adds softly, “Did you think I hadn't noticed?”

  
  


Dean shudders and Sam is horrified to see the glint of a tear fall to Dean's thigh.

  
  


“Did you think I'd forgotten about your orientation mapping?” Grey Suit asks, just as softly, his eyes flicking to Sam, pinning him in place, “And the cute little brother-fucking demo you gave everyone?”

  
  


_Dean!_ Sam tries to say, but he has no voice in Hell.

  
  


“Of course, Hecate has been begging me to repeat it ever since,” Grey Suit says, resting back in his chair, and Dean shakes his head, trembling, fingertips visibly digging into the flesh of his thighs, “But everyone in this place has ulterior motives. So today's your lucky day, whelp. You can have a taster of what you'll get once we start to make some real progress.”

  
  


The desk disappears and Dean's seat reshapes itself into dentist's chair. Grey Suit pushes a button that reclines it and turns Dean towards Sam. Grey Suit displays him perfectly for Sam but Dean doesn't register Sam's presence.

  
  


“Dean,” Grey Suit chides, “What do we do with our arms in the dentist's chair?”

  
  


Dean bites both lips together. He grips the arm rests of the chair and the quad muscle in his right thigh jumps rhythmically.

  
  


“That's better.” Grey suit cups Dean's face tenderly and Sam hates it more than everything he has witnessed so far. He pulls a yellow pill from behind Dean's ear, grinning like some fucked up children's magician, and says, “Open wide sweetheart.”

  
  


Dean shakes his head frantically, his lips still pressed together. His eyes are wide and wild, begging. Sam can't understand why Dean doesn't use his hands to push the demon away, or get out of the chair and run for that matter: there's nothing binding Dean in place that Sam can see.

  
  


Grey Suit sighs and presses the little yellow dot to Dean's closed lips. “Come on Dean,” he says, with the patience afforded those who know they have already won. “It's the good stuff, you remember. Just a few minutes and you'll be ready and raring to go,” and he forces the tablet in with his forefinger, holding Dean's nose and mouth closed until Dean swallows. “Alrighty then.” Grey Suit pats Dean's thigh almost high enough to brush his balls and calls, “Sam!"

  
  


Sam feels the air around him shift, or maybe it is Sam himself who shifts. Whatever trick Grey Suit uses, it makes him visible to Dean. “It's not you,” Dean whispers, more to himself than to Sam. “It's not you, you're alive.”

  
  


Grey Suit points to the floor by his feet, “Come on in, have a seat,” he says, and the last thing Sam wants to do is kneel on the cold stone but he finds himself doing it anyway, no matter how hard he fights.

  
  


Sam tries to snarl. He tries to say, _Fuck you_ , to this demon Dean has learned to obey, and his mouth forms the words, face twisting with displeasure, but no sound comes out. He looks to Dean, and Grey Suit makes it easier, swivelling Dean's chair and raising him so that Sam can see his face. Dean's eyes are closed though, and he's breathing heavily, nostrils flared. Secure-ward restraints snick into place around Dean's wrists and ankles, and a forth closes around his neck. Once they're closed, Dean immediately begins to strain against them, muscles bunching.

  
  


“Soon Dean, soon,” Grey suit soothes, brushing a thumb across Dean's forehead where sweat is forming beads.

  
  


Sam tries to launch himself at the demon in fury and his body obeys, except that his knees won't leave the floor, as though weighted or glued, and Grey Suit smirks at him, just out of reach.

  
  


Grey Suit raises his arms and says, “ _Hoc cuncti videant._ ” The stone floor beneath Sam's knees morphs to sand and dust. The dank walls of the chamber fall away and Sam finds himself centre stage in a Roman-style amphitheatre, with the modern addition of flood lighting. He cringes from the light and wraps his arms around himself, suddenly hyper-aware of the old t-shirt and boxer shorts he had worn to bed.

  
  


Dean's skin has pinked all over with a damp sheen, the way he used to look after a hot shower, but his cock is hard too, and Dean has never before looked at Sam the way that he's looking at him now: dazed and slack-jawed, apparently oblivious to their surroundings. His pupils are blown unnaturally wide and he makes a low noise of displeasure somewhere between a moan and a growl. Every part of his body strains towards Sam.

  
  


The stands are packed with both human and non-human shapes but the lights are too bright for Sam to see more than outlines. Vertigo rushes up, and if Sam had been standing then he would have staggered, maybe fallen. He sways drunkenly sideways but his knees are anchored, fixing him in place.

  
  


“Okay, settle down!” Grey Suit says, voice ringing through the arena, and the hubbub of the stands quiets to a low murmur. “Many of you know Dean Winchester from last week's entertainment with the frost giants, from Introductory Vivisection a month or so ago and, of course, last year's Fire Ant Challenge,” there are cat calls and laughter and Grey Suit mock-bows with a flourish adding, “Of which I was particularly proud. Some select few of you may remember his orientation mapping but for those who don't,” he turns to Sam and points, “This, my ungodly friends, is _Sam_ Winchester. Dean's  younger brother.”

  
  


The whooping and screeching peaks and dies away, as Grey Suit strolls into the blazing lights of the stands. Sam tries again to yell, the reality of the situation only now settling in. He finds that he is still infuriatingly mute and pinches his skin instead, as hard as he can bear, slapping his own face, desperate to wake up.

  
  


Dean strains and snarls in his bonds, hips rutting against nothing, cock jutting obscenely, fucking the air. Sam's knees come free and he catches himself on his hands. Their eyes meet and Sam hesitates because Dean is in distress, Dean _needs_ him, but then Dean mouths, _Run,_ as his restraints spring free, and Sam is up and Sam is running. 

  
  


The hesitation almost costs Sam his capture but he manages to pull away from Dean with longer strides. _It's not real!_ Sam thinks wildly, catching sight of a demon in the stands watching through opera binoculars. His bare foot snags on a pebble, almost tripping him, but although Dean chases him with blinkered determination, he can't run so well with a throbbing erection. Dean seems oblivious to his cock waving and bouncing around as he runs, but Sam winces in sympathy, and also for the loss of his Dean's dignity: Grey Suit will no doubt make Dean re-live the experience once the drug has worn off.

  
  


Sam runs hard, taking care to steer clear of the walls where Dean might corner him, and a desperate hope forms in Sam's overwrought mind: if he can continue to outrun Dean then maybe the drug will wear off from the exertion. He stays out of reach, body remembering its training. Sam could run for many miles before he needs to rest, and so of course it's Dean who goes sprawling to the ground instead.

  
  


He flies forwards a good two feet before skidding to a halt and lying motionless on his side. Sam falters. He can't call out to Dean like he wants to. Dean isn't moving and Sam can't see why from so far away. Sam waits five heartbeats, ten, but Dean doesn't even twitch. Cautiously, Sam approaches. There is blood. Dean has grazed palms and skinned knees at the very least, and Sam picks up speed the closer he gets, instinct to be by Dean's side taking over.

  
  


The moment Sam is within range Dean grabs him by the forearm, dragging him down, and the crowd cheer. He mutters, “I'm sorry Sammy, s'not you,” calm and low, even as he leaves very real bruises on Sam's skin. He fights dirty, tooth and nail, and although Sam kicks and squirms, Dean has him good. “I know, I'm sorry,” Dean whispers, and Sam can't understand how he can be both frenzied and tender. He tries to force Sam to his stomach, and Sam stares at him wildly, silently screaming, _No! No!_

  
  


“You're not real,” Dean whispers again, and he's shaking all over, one hand clenched on the waistband of Sam's shorts.

  
  


Sam nods frantically, pleading with his eyes, _Don't hurt me Dean, don't do this_ , and Dean's teeth grind as he fights the poison in his system. He lets go of Sam's shorts and grabs his hair instead, using it to force Sam to his hands and knees. “Your mouth then, give me your goddamned mouth Sam,” he grits out and Sam opens for him because John Winchester taught his sons how to make the best of a lesser evil, and Sam knows when it's time to raise, and he knows when it's time to fold.

  
  


Sam shuts his eyes and tries to pretend their audience away. Dean fucks his mouth hard and Sam breathes through his nose when he can, breathes in the scent of Dean, feels Dean's cock swell in his mouth, and gets hard in his own shorts. He tries to fight it but no part of the situation is under Sam's control. “HE LIKES IT!” someone yells, cackles and wolf whistles echoing around the arena.

  
  


Sam doesn't want to open his eyes knowing that hundreds of eyes are watching them. He knows that his shorts are tenting, that a dark dark damp spot will be appearing, but then Dean cups his face and Sam has to look up.

  
  


Dean is crying, silent tears streaking his dusty cheeks. “I'm sorry, Sammy,” he whispers, his body tightening as he arches and his cock spills in Sam's mouth.

  
  


Sam wakes up rolling. He lands in a crouch between the motel room beds, panting. “Not a dream,” he whispers furiously, yanking at his shorts and fisting his cock until he's gasping his completion. His body is grimy with a mixture of sweat and dust, and the taste of Dean's orgasm is still fresh on his tongue.

  
  


 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

It takes Sam six days to procure African dreamroot. He dreams of a Dean who holds him close, comforts him and gives him a shoulder to cry on. When Sam counts his fingers in these dreams however, he has eleven, twelve, thirteen; more every time he counts, and he knows that it is not the way back to Dean: The shadow of Dean living in Sam's dreams is nothing more than Sam's fragile imagining. He wakes up crying.

 

He spends a week researching the hell out of demon-dreams, angel-dreams, shamen-dreams, prophetic-dreams and every other type of dream he can think of, with very little to show for his efforts. Ruby texts on Thursday evening, just one word: 'Thirsty?'

 

Sam resists temptation long into the night, lying awake, restless and frustrated. Eventually, he replies: 'Motel 6, Emporia KS. Rm#13'

 

Sleep comes quickly then, with a dream that takes him back: back to the depths of Hell and back to Dean. It feels like a reward. He imagines his father saying, _No such thing as coincidence, son,_ and finds himself naked in Grey Suit's office, wrists bound with scratchy rope to a ceiling ring. There's enough give in the ropes for Sam to lower his heels, but no more than that. 

 

Dean is also naked, hunched once more in the chair across from Grey Suit's desk.

 

“It is common,” Grey Suit is saying, “To be squeamish about such things, particularly for those of you who come to us by more indirect means.” He leans back in his big leather chair and taps his forefingers together. “No matter Dean, you'll get there.” His nasal voice grates on Sam's sanity. “We get all of you there in the end. Anything you'd like to add?”

 

Dean's body draws in even tighter under Grey Suit's scrutiny.

 

“Good. So, if I remember correctly,” Grey Suit continues, shuffling papers, “I promised a reward when you showed improvement in an area of training.”

 

Dean straightens and scans the room but his eyes look right through Sam, the ghost of their father in the alert line of his spine. “Sam?” he whispers.

 

 _Here Dean, right here_ , Sam tries to say, but of course no sound comes out.

 

Grey Suit smiles indulgently.

 

Sam feels the dimensional shift that means he's being revealed to Dean.

 

“Sam.” Dean stands and walks towards him, careless of his nudity. His wears a wistful expression, as though Sam's a painting of himself that's making Dean feel nostalgic.

 

 _It's me!_ Sam mouths and Dean nods a little, smiling sadly and clearly not believing him.

 

“Don't say I never give you anything, whelp,” Grey Suit says.

 

To Sam's horror, Dean goes to the demon unbidden and crouches at his feet like a dog, opening his mouth expectantly. Grey Suit conjures a little yellow pill, and considers Dean, the pill balanced on the tip of a forefinger just out of Dean's reach. Dean's eyes droop and his tongue extends.

 

“Actually, I don't think so,” Grey Suit says, tucking the pill away in a suit pocket. “Let's demonstrate some of that progress for little brother instead, shall we?”

 

Dean flinches, his face colouring quickly as though an invisible slap was administered. “ _Please_ ,” Dean whispers, and Sam's hatred for Grey Suit ratchets up a notch. Grey Suit doesn't seem to hear though, and the next item he conjures is a pin cushion of long thick needles that Sam definitely doesn't like the look of.

 

Sam's pelvis curls in on itself but there's nothing he can do to protect his most vulnerable places, certain he knows where this meeting is heading. Grey Suit is going to torture Sam. He's going to make Dean do it, and Dean doesn't know that Sam is real. Sam twists his wrists against the burn of the ropes but it's hopeless.

 

“Up,” Grey Suit says to Dean, “Assume the position.”

 

Watching Dean follow orders has always made Sam feel queasy. Dean faces Sam, assuming a very wide stance, his fingers locked behind his head, and the way he keeps his eyes cast down while he's doing it makes Sam's palms itch.

 

“Keep looking at Sam now,” Grey Suit says, softer, moving to Dean's side, and Dean meets Sam's eyes as Grey Suit pulls Dean's nipple taut and starts to work the first needle through Dean's flesh.

 

The needle is thick and it's slow going, but Dean is silent, his eyes never leaving Sam's. He doesn't appear to struggle with the pain, and doesn't look defiant in the face of torture as Sam's expecting him to. Sam is familiar with Dean's ashamed look though, and he hates himself for not being able to look away when Dean so clearly wants him to.

 

It's not until the second needle is working its way through Dean's other nipple that Sam notices Dean's arousal. That his cock is rapidly filling out is the first clue but once Sam knows what he's looking for it's all too obvious, in the dilation of Dean's pupils, his breathing and the swell of his lips. The shock of it ripples through Sam and he twitches in his bonds.

 

Sam has seen Dean in pain many times but never seen him respond like this. The demon, this _monster_ that Sam is going to annihilate, has trained Dean to get off on it, and Sam has received the message loud and clear. He ignores the sick, giddy little pulses of excitement running through his own body, and rattles on his rope to catch Grey Suit's attention. Grey Suit ignores him. Dean gives him a tiny pleading look though, and it's enough to make Sam stand still.

 

Grey Suit doesn't stop at Dean's nipples but works five needles into the tender flesh of Dean's left upper arm. He switches arms saying, “There, see. No need for pills.” A sweat has broken out on Dean's brow and his lips are parted. Every new needle makes his eyelids dip in pleasure and Sam feels himself hardening. He twists away from Dean, hips hiding what he can no longer fight, then feels stupid and turns back.

 

 _I'm sorry_ , Sam says silently.

 

 _It's okay_ , Dean tells him, not with words but with the tilt of his head and the same nostalgic smile that says Dean doesn't believe Sam's real anyway.

 

When all the needles are in, forming a ladder, Grey Suit stands behind Dean and strums them with his fingers like he's playing the guitar. He pinches and twists Dean's nipples around their thick piercings and Sam winces in sympathy. “It's not nearly enough is it Dean?” Grey Suit whispers, and he's talking to Dean but he's looking at Sam.

 

The needles are drawn out just as slowly as they were pushed in. It makes Dean's nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches as his cock bobs, but he's silent throughout. When Grey Suit grinds the heels of his palms into Dean's bleeding nipples though, Dean lets out his first moan and it makes Sam want to fight the ropes again because he needs to touch.

 

 

“A little more warm-up?” Grey Suit says.

 

It takes Sam a moment to recognise the pronged pole that appears in Grey Suit's hand, but when he does he tries to shout, _No!_

 

Dean yelps at the first blue spark of electricity hitting his skin. Grey Suit pokes him again with the cattle prod: on his thighs, his butt, his sides and Dean makes noises every time, the dam apparently broken. When the shock from the prod comes as a surprise, Dean's shouts are high-pitched, almost squeals, but when Grey Suits lets him see it coming Dean makes more of a grunting moan. Grey Suit allows less and less time between shocks for Dean to gather his wits. “Be still,” Grey Suit says, shocking Dean's armpits so that his arms fall to his sides. “I said stand still, Dean,” he taunts, poking Dean faster, making Dean's body lose control.

 

Each hit of the prod makes a _fizzzz-ZAP_ noise  and the scent of burning flesh gradually fills the chamber. Sam's emotions are all over the place, watching Dean suffer. He wants to cry with frustration, save Dean from the pain and the humiliation both, but watching Dean's cock throb and leak as he writhes to avoid the prod is just too erotic for Sam to ignore. He tells himself that he's excited by Dean's obvious arousal; that his body is hard-wired to appreciate Dean's pleasure, but he knows it's not the whole story.

 

“Ah, I love it when they dance,” Grey suit says to himself, laughing as Dean does just that, still trying to keep his hands above his head but failing as his muscles spasm. Grey Suit uses the prod all over Dean, on his feet too, and Sam feels a pity that he knows Dean would hate, to see his brother clown dancing, limbs flailing and cock dripping while Sam looks on. It does nothing to kill Sam's erection.

 

“That's more like it,” Grey Suit says in the softer voice that Sam hates just as much, “Nearly ready now, good boy.” Dean sways, muscles jumping and spasming as Grey Suit lets him settle. “Lift your cock for me,” Grey Suit says, aiming the prod low.

 

Dean's cock definitely doesn't need lifting but Dean cups it, holding it to his belly. He keeps his other hand behind his head, his legs spread and his eyes fixed, once more, on Sam.

 

Sam can't breathe. He wants to cover his face, look away, run and hide, but he can't. His knees go weak, trying to curl in on himself at the imagined agony of it, and his wrists take the strain of his body.

 

Dean's inner thighs are laced with tiny silver scars. There's some blood from the needles and sore points from the cattle prod, but all the old marks, including scars Dean should have had from before, are gone as though they never were. For some reason the lattice on Dean's thighs has been allowed to remain though, and Sam has a horrible feeling that they've been left as a reminder: that Dean has been doing those to himself down here.

 

“Ask him for it,” Grey Suit says to Dean, a smirk in his voice, “Beg Sammy to watch me hurting you just the way you like it.”

 

“Please,” Dean says immediately, eyes on Sam, a cool tear of humiliation sliding down his hot red face, “Please watch as my balls are shocked. Let me show you how much I love to be hurt.”

 

“Ah, lovely.” Grey Suit says, lowering the prod and sending it skittering away across the chamber. “You feel that Dean? That's self loathing. It probably hasn't hurt so good since last time you saw Sammy here, has it?”

 

Dean doesn't reply. His Adam's apple bobs and a few more tears fall, making new tracks, as his cock leaks a trail of drool on the stone floor.

 

“But I think we'll do this part the old fashioned way,” Grey Suit says. “Spread 'em a little wider.”

 

Grey Suit kicks from behind. The first impact of his Italian leather loafer on Dean's balls makes Dean scream. He staggers but doesn't fall. “Lovely searing pain tearing through you,” Grey Suit says. He waits patiently for Dean to get back in position before kicking him again. “It's all you are, Dean, it's what you're made of. Feel it burn.”

 

Dean screams louder with each kick. Every time he uncurls Sam is amazed to see that he's still hard, every time Grey Suit's foot finds its mark Sam's body trembles with sadistic excitement, and he hates himself that much more. Sam doesn't know how much he can take. Since he can't save Dean, he wishes he could pass out and escape, but his body is shaking, straining and confused, and it seems more likely that he will shoot off untouched with Dean's screams ringing in his ears.

 

The seventh time, Dean goes all the way down and lies in the foetal position. “Feels so good doesn't it?” Grey Suit croons, as Dean writhes in agony on the floor. “You need it, Dean, need me to give it to you, need it like you need Sammy here.” He offers Dean a friendly hand up, and waits for him to get back into position. “You've been such a good boy, I think I'll let you at Sammy now. Would you like that?”

 

Dean looks to Sam, and his expression is disturbingly similar to how he looked after taking the yellow pill. He looks hungry. His ball sack is dark red, heavy and swollen, and his cock is the same colour, pointing straight at Sam. “Yes, please,” Dean says, and Sam thinks this time he means it.

 

“Let's pretend it's the real Sammy shall we?” Grey Suit whispers, loud enough for Sam to hear, and Dean growls as his cock jerks and drools.

 

Sam shakes his head frantically, mostly at Grey Suit's assertion that he's not real.

 

Dean watches him with a slow, dark-eyed fascination. “His mouth,” Dean says. “Please.”

 

“Very well.” Grey Suit waves a hand and the rope loosens sufficiently for Sam to be brought to his knees. It's uncomfortable on the cold stone but Sam is anchored in place once more, just like last time. He opens easily for Dean, trying to focus on getting Dean off rather than the demon looking on.

 

Sam expects Dean to finish quickly and at first he can't understand why it's not happening. Dean's cock is rigid in Sam's mouth, like silk over steel, and his balls are drawn up tight. Sam tries to make it good, uses his tongue and lips, and when that doesn't work he takes Dean deep, gagging and drooling, but Dean can't get there. He moans and sobs but nothing they do seems to work.

 

“Please hurt me,” Dean whispers finally, almost too quiet to be heard. “Fucking _hurt me_ , Sam,” and Sam gets it, almost chokes on the realisation: Dean's not going to be able to come unless he's hurting. 

 

He can't touch Dean, can't scrape nails over skin or dig fingerprint bruises into hips, so Sam does the only thing he can: he lets his teeth scrape over Dean's cock.

 

Dean goes wild, moaning and thrusting and Grey Suit pulls him back, one last long scrape as he pulls out of Sam's mouth. “No no no, we can't have that, not before the main event,” Grey Suit says.

 

Dean clenches his fists and bows his head and Sam feels sorry for him again, and acute sympathy as well, because Sam desperately needs to get off too, like ten fucking minutes ago.

 

“Come on Dean,” Grey Suit coaxes. “Get on with it or I'll make him disappear.”

 

Dean whines piteously but doesn't move.

 

Grey Suit sighs. “Look, I'll even help out.” He manoeuvres Sam, without touching him once, to lie back on the cold floor, arms blessedly free of the ropes but fastened to the floor at his sides by iron manacles that definitely hadn't been there earlier or Sam would have felt them with his feet.

 

He tries to fight the lift and spread of his legs but it's an exercise in futility .The demon doesn't even flinch. Sam ends up folded in two with his knees by his shoulders, held there by nothing he can see or feel except Grey Suit's will. He strains furiously, imagining how obscene a picture he must make. He hates to be displayed like this for Dean against his will, hates it but there's not a thing he can do about it.

 

“Hekate said you were getting spoilt.” Grey Suit mutters, when Dean still doesn't move. He shoves Dean, and Dean kneels, settling between Sam's parted legs and getting to work, opening him up as best he can with fingers and spit.

 

Sam tries to convey to Dean that it's okay, he wants him, it's okay, but there's a niggle in the back of Sam's mind. How long will Grey Suit let Dean fuck him? Sam can't hurt Dean like this, with his limbs bound, he can't even raise his head enough to bite. The worry dissipates as Dean pushes into him though. It hurts: no lube, not enough prep, but after what Sam's just witnessed he can't bring himself to show it.

 

The pain eases to a low burn, and Sam's cock, which had flagged, perks up once more and slaps happily against his chest. Sam has spent a lot of time fucking himself over the years, with various things, pretending they were Dean. He's been at it a lot recently, since the waking dreams began, and Dean's thrusts soon feel really good, Sam's body well practised at this kind of pleasure. And maybe the angle Sam's body has been folded into isn't so terrible after all.

 

Dean tentatively takes Sam's cock in hand but drops it at Grey Suit's, “No,” as though burned.

 

“I wish it was really you,” Dean says, quiet and confessional. His eyes watch Sam's, and Sam tries to return it; he tries to tell Dean with his eyes, of the desire and devotion that has always meant 'brother' for Sam. It works, at least to some extent, because Dean's body responds with pleasure. He cries out softly, but can't find his climax without pain.

 

When this is over, Sam is going to learn Grey Suit's demon name and summon the bastard. He's going to lock him in a meatsuit, pump holy water into every bodily orifice and slice him into a thousand tiny pieces. Then he's going to do it again.

 

Sam clenches, tight as he can around Dean, and Dean moans, but it's not enough. He grits his teeth, grimacing as he clenches harder and Grey Suit laughs.

 

The truth is, Sam doesn't even want Dean to come now. He doesn't want to be sent away, topside and alone, to the dreary world of the living-dead without Dean, however awful this place is. Grey Suit's eyes stay on Sam, smug and calculating. It makes Sam's blood boil.

 

“Here's your medicine, pretty,” Grey Suit says to Dean, taking one of the thickest needles from the pin cushion. He pushes it steadily into the flesh of Dean's ass cheek, “Time's up.” Dean's body starts to come and Grey Suit cups the back of Dean's neck. “Good boy,” he says, “Well done,” and Dean cries out brokenly, cock spurting impossibly harder, spilling load after load into Sam's ass.

 

When it's done, Dean flops down and rests his head over Sam's heart. Grey Suit rolls his eyes but allows it for a moment. Sam wishes with everything he has that his arms were free, so that he could hold his brother. He wants to be still: a soft cradle for Dean at least, just for this moment, all Sam can offer. Too much of Dean's naked skin is pressed against Sam though, all the way down to Dean's soft abused cock and balls, resting hot and a little wet on Sam's thigh. Dean smells of sweat and comfort and when he shifts, the friction of his skin against Sam's cock is too good to resist. Sam seeks it out over and over again, rolling his hips.

 

“Come along now Dean,” Grey Suit says. “Souls to torture, terror to wreak.” He takes a handful of Dean's hair, where it's longest at the crown of his head, and pulls. Dean moans, his spent cock twitching against Sam's thigh.

 

Sam wakes, stomach still turning, to find that only six minutes have passed since he fell asleep. He jerks himself urgently to completion, pinching viscously at his nipples and tugging hard on his balls as he comes.

 

 

 

 


End file.
